Healing
by Judin
Summary: We can't grieve forever, and perhaps, in helping you recover, I'll find some healing for myself as well.


**Author's notes: **Mild Logan/Scott if you want it to be. Set after the X2 movie, with SPOILERS. It's a different take on the beginning of X3 I suppose. I love this pairing. :3

**Healing**

You've always been the silent type. I'm pretty sure I am correct here, even though "always" isn't very long, seeing as I've only known you all for a few months. Like I said, you've always been quiet, but now you don't speak at all. You don't smile either, and damn if I'll ever say it out loud, but I kind of miss that smile. It was reassuring somehow, a silent reminder that despite all the bad things in the world there was always hope. I have seen a large number of bad things, so that feeling was important to me.

With Jean gone and you as good as gone, there is some confusion as to who to turn to for all the things that a leader is needed for. I'm beginning to understand how difficult your job is, and how well you were doing it. I've approached the Professor, but we agreed to give you time. It's probably the safest route; unstable men are not good leaders.

Storm is wondering when you'll return to your classes. The kids are too. You're the teacher, not me, no matter what Bobby Drake's parents might think. I have done the odd lesson or two, to the delight of my temporary students; I have a feeling I was manipulated somehow, seeing as we went from algebra to what they called "the science of basketball". So poetry class is closed until further notice, but we're looking into getting a new math teacher. We are assuming you will return at some point to recite flowery phrases to the benefit of eager, young minds, but for now you do…nothing. You're in your dorm behind a locked door, you tidy up, you're all alone in the danger room, and you eat before regular meals to have an excuse not to sit at the table with everyone else.

It's this that worries me the most; the isolation. Touching too seems to have become such a problem for you. We gave you wide berth at first, but then after a while we realised it was you who was walking around us. You shy away from all collision, confrontation, care. We're all grieving, but this can't be good for you!

And why do I care? I've asked myself a hundred times why it gets to me, and I suppose the answer is that I know how you feel. We deal with it differently, but it's the same pain. I loved her. I've realised this. I think I realised it the moment the water swallowed her up, and sometimes I hate you because in the end it was you she wanted, but if her death did one thing, it was to make you an adamant and unavoidable presence in my life. She wouldn't have wanted any of us to grieve her forever, especially not you, so I suppose, since no one else is going to set you straight, I'll have to fix you.

You're in the danger room. Probably beating the stuffing out of the robots. It's a good way of letting things out, I know, I've done it myself. I hesitate for a moment before opening the door and entering. It's not what I expected. For a moment I'm frozen, before reminding myself that it is just a simulation. Guess you're deeper in this than anyone could guess, huh Summers?

A couple of metres in front of me lies Alkali Lake, with its majestic mountains in the distance and the forest surrounding it. I've already lost track of the door, but I have no intention of leaving yet. You're not far away either. There is a small rise in the terrain to my right, and you're sitting on top of it, on an open patch of grass. Knees drawn up, arms around them, face serious, eyes hidden behind your glasses as usual. I wonder if you even know I am here. You're wearing old jeans, a red t-shirt and a black jacket. I don't want to give you a chance to run, so I enter the forest behind me, approaching you silently and coming up behind you finally. "Nice view." I think it's pretty good for an opening line. I've never been a therapist, and I must be half mad to go with you as my first try, but I can't stand watching you any longer.

I expected, hoped even, that you'd be angry with me; I can handle your anger, but you don't even move to look at me. "I think I know where she was standing." You point towards the broken dam, and I suppress a shiver. I don't want to be back here. "It's about there. That's where the jet stood anyway. And over there is the entrance to the base, if the computer has managed to reconstruct the ruins, that is."

Damn, but I think you're doing this just to hurt me. I sit down, making sure you have to turn if you want to look at me, so that I will know when you do. "How many times have you done this?"

You shrug. "Some." A stray breeze is catching strands of your hair.

"Does the Professor know?" Another shrug. It isn't always easy to tell what Xavier knows, but surely he wouldn't let you carry on like this. I realise that I'm doing what everyone else has been doing to you: beating around the bush, so I take a deep breath and go for it. "Scott-" But I am smoothly interrupted before I can say more than your name. When did I start using your name?

"Don't, Logan. Just don't. I don't want to hear it." You look down on your feet, shaking your head just a little. Even now your voice has a bit of the old authority, and the I-know-better-than-you pitch.

I can't help a small growl in the back of my throat. I'm slowly being reminded of why we don't get along. "I don't care. You'll listen anyway. You're needed in the outside world-"

"The outside world means nothing!" I can tell that you regret the words. You bite your lower lip and turn away slightly, thinking of the Professor perhaps, or Ororo. Angrily, you continue, "I'm a grown man and I'll do what I want. The least thing I need is your advice on how to cope."

I raise an eyebrow, "Why's that?" At least you're talking.

For a moment you pull your lips back in a snarl, and I know you are losing control. "Because, while I was chained in a dirty, dank, rotten cell up here in hell-frozen-over, you were making out with my girl!" The last part is shouted, and you've finally turned to face me, glaring through the red glasses, only a breath away from my face.

My own temper is rising, along with an ache in my chest that might be just grief, but maybe guilt as well. She was a good kisser. Great in fact. You'd know, wouldn't you. "I already told you, she made her choice. Let it go."

Suddenly, but not entirely unexpectedly, you put both hands against my chest and push hard. I tumble backwards and roll around a couple of times before rising to my feet. You do the same, your hand on your glasses. "Don't tell me what to do!"

I return your forceful gesture, coupling it up with a foot behind your knee to make sure you go down, but you manage to grab my shirt and pull me with you. Then there is only violence, the kind that makes the pain inside flare and burn, kicking and punching and snarling and rolling around on the grass. Finally, I get you underneath me. "She didn't save you so you could drown yourself in misery!" The choice of words is pretty bad, and the joke is not lost on you.

You freeze up, both hands on my shoulders. I wish I could see your eyes. I bend down, "It might hurt for years and years, but you have to try. Not for me, or for the kids, or even for yourself, but for Jean!"

The name triggers you again, and you twist wildly, hitting my chest with balled fists, "Get off me!"

I do as you say, moving off, and as soon as you are free, you get on your feet, walking a couple of steps away, bowing your head and turning your back to hide the tears. I watch you for a moment before getting up.

In the past I have never had to or wanted to comfort someone, but lately there have been times where it's been necessary and good, and in this time I have figured out an unspoken rule, that too few follow: either you do it properly, or you shouldn't do it at all.

You don't need a pat on the back and a chin up, I know, so I wrap both arms around your waist and pull you back so that you're resting your weight on me. You let your head fall back against my left shoulder, tears running over your temples and into your hair, and I lean my forehead against your neck.

We deal with it in different ways, but our pain is the same. Speaking is difficult when each word has to be dragged out, and even worse when everyone is looking at you like you're some wounded animal that could attack any moment. Touching is hard when you carry your grief like threads of pain throughout your body, branching from your heart and into your hands and feet like a fever. But right now, there is no need for words, and touching you feels pretty good.

It might take time, but I'll heal you, Scott. She would have liked that.


End file.
